


what joy it might give

by howevernot



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, James In A Dress, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Tenderness, they're just really soft in this ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:15:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howevernot/pseuds/howevernot
Summary: Francis's favorite dress belonging to James is not one of the long flashy gowns with beautiful patterns or one of the simple sleek gowns that make Francis lose his breath.His favorite dress is by comparison simple and not terribly fashionable. James bought it because it has lovely wood buttons and a bodice that cinched tight about his ribs and a loose skirt down past his knees. He looks almost pastoral in it; the soft ivory linen with a simple stripe pattern makes James’ perpetually sun kissed skin glow. But ultimately, it’s not about what James looks like in the dress, Francis finds him beautiful in anything he could wears, rather it’s James’ smile while wearing the dress, the relaxed line of his wide shoulders under the straps.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	what joy it might give

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a play on a line from "Ode to Buttoning and Unbuttoning My Shirt" by Ross Gay, which everyone should go read.
> 
> That being said this is entirely self-indulgent fluff about how sometimes there's just that one article of clothing that makes you feel right.
> 
> This is completely unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine.

Francis's favorite dress belonging to James is not one of the long flashy gowns with beautiful patterns or one of the simple sleek gowns that make Francis lose his breath. 

His favorite dress is by comparison simple and not terribly fashionable. James bought it because it has lovely wood buttons and a bodice that cinched tight about his ribs and a loose skirt down past his knees. He looks almost pastoral in it; the soft ivory linen with a simple stripe pattern makes James’ perpetually sun kissed skin glow. But ultimately, it’s not about what James looks like in the dress, Francis finds him beautiful in anything he could wears, rather it’s James’ smile while wearing the dress, the relaxed line of his wide shoulders under the straps.

Francis doesn’t pretend to fully understand James’ relationship with clothing. Francis would rather be in an Aran jumper or the simple uniform of a suit and tie. He’s never had James’ aesthetic flare. But with James’ love of all things beautiful, comes a fear that he is not beautiful enough, that someone might look at him and see through the soft lovely things he wears, whether suits or dresses, and see an interior that James still believes is ugly.

This simple dress seems to shield him from these concerns. In this dress James doesn’t fret over the way the soft linen of this dress hangs somewhat loosely about the bust, or how his hips are narrow and streamlined, or how his legs are unshaven. He just throws the dress on in the morning without a second thought as he goes down to make breakfast. 

Francis never knows how James might be dressed on a given day. James is almost always awake and downstairs before Francis and often Francis morns that his lover’s penchant for early mornings robs him of watching James dress. But the reward is the delightful surprise of finding James already composed for the day downstairs.

This is how Francis finds him: at the kitchen table, reading from his tablet with the top four buttons of Francis’ favorite dress undone and one straps falling from his narrow shoulder. Francis is entranced. He looks more regal than Sergeant’s Portrait of Madam X in all her risqué glory. The column of his throat more alluring, his shoulders well-muscled but still smooth, his skin tanned. The strength of Francis's love for this man melts through him, sweet and thick as syrup and just as golden. He cannot find it in himself to speak so he goes over to James and hugs him from behind, breathing in the scent of James's hair. 

James hums and arches into Francis. 

"Good morning, dear," he says brightly and Francis murmurs a corresponding greeting back into James's hair. When he steps back, he takes a moment reel himself in and collect the coffee mug James has put out for him; it’s the one with the texture of cable knit on it, a gift from Blanky a few years previously. From the look on James's face when he turns to look at Francis, Francis doesn't quite wipe the look of awe from his face successfully. Nor would he want to, he decides, looking at James's corresponding smile. He leans down and kisses James’s cheekbone before turning to start fixing himself breakfast.

“If you keep looking at me like that, you’ll be late for office hours,” James tells him lightly as Francis eats.

“Hmm, my days of being late to work are well past, James,” he warns but he keeps his tone fond and is rewarded by a tender smile. It used to be, when they were first feeling out their relationship, that any tenderness from James felt like glass scraping along the inside of his ribs. It had taken rehab and being called an idiot by both Blanky and Ross multiple times to realize that what he’d thought was pity was in fact gentleness, that James’ anger in their arguments was borne from stung pride and rejection rather than hatred. 

It had taken time for them to unfold to each other. They’d been two years into genuine friendship before James had hesitantly admitted to wearing dresses.

James had sat him down one day, looking terribly anxious and explained that he wore dresses, that he would like Francis to know this part of him.

“I know it’s not exactly conventional,” James had said. “If it makes you uncomfortable obviously I will refrain from – ” he trailed off but Francis had been able to fill in the blanks.  
“James,” he’d found he didn’t know what to say.

In the protracted silence that followed, James stood, began to move away, and Francis felt a spike of anxiety watching him go. If he could not make it clear to James that this was fine, that this was not a problem, that Francis would love him no matter what he wore, Francis would never forgive himself.

“James, please sit back down,” 

James had watched him for a long moment, standing by a table scattered with charcoals and pastels and paint brushed, before he turned back and sat without question. He looked for all the world as if he expected Francis to hit him and that thought made Francis’s stomach drop with guilt and shame. Plenty had already passed between the two of them that Francis would never forgive himself for. 

“I – should I call you something different? Use different pronouns?” he asked eventually feeling his cheeks heat. Francis had worked with trans students in the past, had received the appropriate training required by the university but he was by no means good at this.

“No! Heavens no. I just wear dresses. They make me happy,” he said with a helpless shrug. “They’re just my clothes.”

It’s clear that the latter statement isn’t quite true or James wouldn’t be so frightened to admit it.

“James, I don’t care.” James flinched and Francis scrambled to make it right. “No, I mean it doesn’t matter. Christ, there’s no good way to say this. What I mean is, if it makes you happy then I celebrate that. Besides I’ve seen you in sequence suits, I don’t suppose this is so different,” he was trying for gentle teasing.

“It is though,” James wasn’t looking at him, and his jaw was tightly clenched. “It is different. That suit is a costume, a bit of good fun. But this isn’t that. This is just clothes, they’re just what I like to wear.”

“Then you should wear them,” Francis told him gently.

“You say that but Francis, the way people look at me,” he was shaking his head.

“Fuck the way people look at you. You’re an accomplished historian, a good teacher, and kind and gentle friend and bloody gorgeous to boot.”

James’ eyes welled up and for a moment Francis felt a sinking horror that he’d certainly done something wrong, to make James cry.

But then James had reached out, taken his hand and gasped out, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, you prat. I don’t deserve your thanks.”

“Don’t you?” James gave him look that Francis used to think was arch, but he’s learned is simply shock.

“Anyone upset at you for wearing a dress doesn’t love you and deserves no love from you.”

James’ face had become unreadable and Francis went over his words again. Ah, he’d made himself transparent, and all over a dress.

“Do you love me, Francis?” James asked, terribly soft.

“Of course, you’re my dearest friend.”

“Ross is your dearest friend,” James told him, but he brought Francis’ hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

“James,” Francis breathed, probably sounding as thunderstruck as he felt.

There’d been more kisses after that, and an important discussion about romance and boundaries and what love even meant. There had been more than kissing too. And after all that James had asked in a small voice into Francis’ chest, “You’re sure you’d be ok with walking around with me in dress? Going on dates? People will stare.”

“I guess I’ll have to get used to it,” he’d told James, rubbing a slow palm over his scared back.

The first time he’d seen James in a dress had been mere days later and the free and easy smile James had given him had told Francis everything he needed to know about James and his dresses. He was also right that people would stare, and it had taken time for Francis to filter out the critical looks, rather than letting each make him feel terribly exposed and self-conscious. 

He breaks away from thoughts of the past to kiss James a hasty goodbye.

He spends his commute thinking of all the time they’ve spent together since that conversation, all the dresses he’s worn, from completely over the top to homely to debonair, and all the smiles they’ve shared with James’ skirts brushing against Francis’ pant legs. 

Francis boards the train feeling contented that James is content, happy in the knowledge he will come home to find James ensconced in their armchair reading a book, with that lovely silk shawl his brother gave him over his shoulders, or sitting at the desk in his office, grading papers, hair mussed from frustration, waiting for Francis join him.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come yell at me on tumblr over at howevernot.


End file.
